


Break Me Down

by WeeWinchesterBeastie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: But mostly angst, Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, FIXING THE DAMN SAMULET, Little bit of smut, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Oral Sex, Sibling Love, Wincest - Freeform, right after Dark Side of the Moon, season five
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2018-01-22 02:31:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1572842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeeWinchesterBeastie/pseuds/WeeWinchesterBeastie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's at a breaking point...</p><p>Immediately following Dark Side of the Moon. Title inspired by "Far From Home" by Five Finger Death Punch:</p><p>'Cause it's almost like<br/>Your heaven's trying everything to break me down<br/>'Cause it's almost like<br/>Your heaven's trying everything to keep me out</p>
            </blockquote>





	Break Me Down

We pull into the motel parking lot, and to say it’s been a tense drive would be a frigging understatement. The apocalypse might be on its way, but we’ve already had our fucking Armageddon and I’m done. I’m just so goddamn done.

Sam’s been quiet and hasn’t pushed me even once for a _let’s share and care_ moment so I guess that means he knows it’s pretty serious this time. I slam the door and look around, not ready to be alone in an enclosed space with him again just yet. He turns and looks at me over the roof of the car, his eyes squinted against the sun. “I’ll get the room,” he says, his voice quiet.

“Fine,” I say, pointing myself towards the shitty looking diner at the other end of the lot. He doesn’t say anything as I leave him behind.

What the fuck is there _to_ say?

Nothing. That’s what the fuck. Fucking _nothing._

*          *          *

I watch Dean walk off towards the diner, and there’s a cold sick knot in the pit of my stomach, because I think this time I’ve really fucking broken him. Broken us. He’s not even really mad, and I think that scares me most of all.

He’s just…resigned. Sad.

I want him to yell, curse me out, say something _,_ say _anything_. But I guess he already said everything he needed to. Didn’t even need words to do it. Just a little _thud_ , the sound of metal dropping on metal. And just like that, nothing will ever be the same again.

Cas’s words echo in my head as I watch Dean disappear into the diner.

 _I don’t need this anymore. It’s worthless_.

Those words stung. But if anyone understands being disappointed in fathers, it’s me. Cas thought the amulet would bring him to God. It was a nice thought—that the necklace a heartbroken kid gave his big brother one Christmas Eve all those years ago might lead the way to God and save the world.

Instead we found out that, as usual, we’re on our own.

So I could forgive Cas’s words—the way he threw the amulet back to Dean like it was a piece of junk.

But then Dean—

I turn and shove through the door to the motel office. The clerk is greasy and the room is even worse, but I don’t care, because all I can see is this look on Dean’s face as he stands there staring down at the amulet. It’s only been off his neck once before and that’s when I took it off his shredded corpse, his chest torn to ribbons, his eyes pain-wide and staring at the ceiling.

I’d cried his name and buried my face in his hair, and when Bobby finally found us all I could think was that he was gone—my brother, my home, myself. We were so tied up in each other, so few things to call our own, so few things that made us _us._ He was gone and all that was left was a car, some clothes, some really bad music and me.

And the amulet.

I couldn’t bear to take it off him until the very end. I eased it off his stiff corpse that we’d cleaned up as best we could and dressed in a clean shirt and jeans. Bobby did that part. He cried the whole time, washing Dean’s broken body, cleaning all the blood away.

I drank every bottle straight until I could barely stand, and then I crawled up next to my big brother one last time, buried my face in the crook of his neck and tried to catch the scent of him—something there’s no real words for, but the smell that was _him_ —the flavor I’d catch when my tongue was on his skin, my fingers in his hair, our sweat and sometimes blood, and always that sharp tang of sex at the end—I wanted to find some small vestige of that scent still on the body in front of me.

But it was gone. Just a body. And I screamed and told him I was sorry.

Bobby tried to pull me away but I whipped a bottle at him and he let me be.

The next day we drove out to the middle of nowhere and dug a grave—something Dean and I had done a million times. Only this time I was going to leave him there alone—leave him in a dirt hole to rot.

I almost buried him with the amulet—it seemed right somehow. Since the day I gave it to him, he’d never taken the thing off.

But I just couldn’t leave it. One last little bit of him, of us, to hold onto.

*          *          *

There’s an empty place right beside my heart.

Yeah, poor me, boo hoo, cry me a chick flick river, right? And anyway, it’s not like I didn’t do it to myself anyway. _I_ took the damn necklace off. _I_ threw it away.

Fuckin useless thing anyway. It sucked balls as god EMF—Cas found that out the hard way—and it was just a damn necklace. Hunk of metal on a strip of leather. What the fuck does a hunter need jewelry for anyway?

Doesn’t mean a damn thing.

Except I know that’s a damn lie. Wouldn’t of had to throw the thing out if it _hadn’t_ meant something. It’s more like I just couldn’t bear to hang it back around my neck. The symbolism was just a little too on the nose if you know what I mean.

The coffee in this rat hole joint is truly awful and when my food arrives, even though the burger looks decent, I find that I just can’t eat a bite. Eating food seems sort of pointless now anyway. I’m Heaven’s bitch—can’t be killed. Special mission to be felt up by Michael and all that, so I could probably starve to death, run out in traffic, chug a bottle of draino, whatever, and thirty seconds later, _bam_ back to this shitty excuse for a life.

The idea could have some interesting possibilities if I cared enough to really think about it. There’s a lot of awesome shit I could get into if my life truly didn’t have any consequences. But my heart’s just not in it.

And god forbid I wake up in Heaven again and see twelve year old Sammy smiling up at me, laughing and setting off fireworks, dancing in the sparks and looking back at me like I’m the best damn thing in his life.

I shove up from the table and throw some crumpled bills down. I knock over the coffee cup but I don’t give a fuck because all of a sudden I’m mad. I’m so goddamn mad I just wanna grab a crowbar and smash something till my muscles quiver and every last ounce of this godforsaken feeling is screamed right out of me.

I would set the goddamn world on fire for that kid and he couldn’t even—

I wing the motel door open and Sam starts up from the side of the bed where he was sitting, his eyes wide, that stupid floppy hair lit up in a shaft of sunlight coming through the window.

“You sonuvabitch!” I snarl, storming forward.

His face changes, something almost like relief, like he’s been waiting for this, and I grab his shirt with both fists and slam him back down against the bed. I lean over him, my hands fisted tight against him, something just _trembling_ inside me.

“You’re my _heaven!_ ” I yell, and I punch the bed an inch from his face as hard as I can and I swear to god it takes every ounce of control I have not to pulverize his stupid beautiful face.

I push myself up as he tries to grab me, push myself away from him because I can’t believe I said it. I could shoot myself in the head, I’m such an asshole. Wasn’t bad enough living through it, now I’ve gone and _said_ it out loud? As though broadcasting it in an angry voice will somehow change anything.

Glass shatters and my fist’s in the impact crater of what’s left of the mirror, and I feel that bastard behind me so I turn and grab him, shove him back against the wall and turn away again, but this time he gets hold of me, twists his fingers in my shirt and pulls me to him. His lips crash into mine and he grips me by the hair, his lips feeding at me, roaming over my cheek, my jaw, the hollow of my neck. And my goddamn body fuckin sticks a knife in my back because I suddenly need to kiss him so badly, to feel his hands, his body, all over mine and I let out this broken sound and turn my lips to his like the stupid bastard I am.

His name comes out of my lips all busted and shivering, and he clutches me tighter, wrapping those yeti arms of his around me. And _fuck me_ there are tears leaking out of my eyes and this is just too goddamn much.

He’s ripping me out of my clothes, this panicked kind of look on his face, and I’ve got this sick feeling in my gut like this is all a bribe, a sort of _here let me fuck you and fix everything_ kind of thing. And god fucking damnit I’m so broken right now I don’t even have the self-respect to call him on it. He’s on his knees, tearing my fly down and then he’s got my dick in his hands and I’m crying out even though I don’t want to. He wraps his lips around my cock and I grab a fistful of his hair, my arms straining, head thrown back, letting him work me, trying to let the pornstar-worthy things he’s doing with his tongue wipe clear that image of the smile on his face when he told me how great Flagstaff was, how much fun he had _running away from me_.

His tongue swirls the head of my cock and then he deep throats me, and there’s stars shooting through my body and his hands are gripping my ass and raking my bare stomach, but it’s just not enough.

It doesn’t fix a damn thing.

“Get off me,” I snarl. I press my boot to his chest and heave and he goes down hard. I feel a little better, but not much.

“You think you’re just gonna suck my cock and make this better?” I snarl, grabbing him by the hair, leaning down over him. I feel _dangerous_ right now. Like this could really be the end.

“Dean, I’m _sorry_ ,” he gasps, and I can tell I’m hurting him. And I’m fucking glad. I twist his hair a little tighter and he makes this sound that matches the pain in my chest. “You don’t understand,” he says, his hands gripping my arms, not like he’s trying to fight, but like he needs to touch me. And that feeling like maybe he really needs to stay connected, like he _needs_ to touch my skin, does something primal to me. It makes me wanna pull him up, strip him down, and find that place between us where all the shit and blood and horror goes away and I’m finally home because I’m finding myself in my brother over and over and over.

But it’s all a goddamn lie and I know that now.

“I understand just fine,” I say. “Your heaven’s got _nothing_ to do with me, you ungrateful little bastard. Your heaven is _leaving me_ , over and over and over. _That’s_ your idea of heaven.”

“No,” he says, his hand struggling up, slipping in past my guard and grazing my jaw, and this awful sound comes out of me that makes me wanna kick my own ass. My head dips, falls against him. We’re pressed forehead to forehead and I just wanna sink down into him, let him talk me out of this, let him _fuck_ me out of this.

But I can’t. I just _can’t_.

I push to my feet, leaving his breath and the smell of him behind, and I’m stuffing my stupid traitor cock back in my pants because goddamnit sometimes just fighting with that dumb kid is enough to make me wanna grab him and do the dirtiest things I can think of with his stupid overgrown body.

But there’s an empty place next to my heart and it doesn’t matter what filthy things Sam and I do in the dark, it’s never gonna change the fact that I love that kid more than my own life, more than my own _soul_ —and he doesn’t feel even remotely the same.

His idea of heaven is a life without me. And I just don’t think I can live with that anymore.  

I grab the keys and put my hand on the door and—

*          *          *

He’s leaving, and this deep, dark part of me says it’s going to be for good this time. I’ve pushed him too far and this is the end.

So I knock him out.

I’m totally shocked for a moment, just standing over his unconscious sprawled form, my knuckles on fire. It’s not easy to knock Dean out, and I don’t know if it’s a measure of how desperate I am or how beat down he already was, but he’s out cold and I’ll take it.

I will take it.

I get him tied to the chair and since we’ve both gotten out of this type of scenario more times than I can count, I use every trick in the book to keep him where I want him. I even tie the legs of the chair to the bed so he can’t just up and hurl himself at the wall, chair and all.

And then I sit there, waiting, my heart in my throat. Because he is gonna be _so pissed._

But I need him pissed. I need him spitting fire and hurling juvenile insults. I need him to be Dean—don’t give a fuck, smug bastard, _I think I’m adorable_ Dean. Not this broken-hearted soul-deadened thing he’s turned into since yesterday. ‘Cause when I look at him like that I feel like my heart is going to rip right out of my chest and the world is going dark all around me. The stars could fall and the earth could burn but it wouldn’t matter because I’ve broken my brother and I don’t know how to put him back together.

We’ve been having this same awful fight for five years. No, more than that. I don’t even know how long anymore. And I’m feeling dangerous right now—like one way or another we’re going to walk out of this room together, or we’re both going to break—turn into the wrong people and never turn back again.

We’ve got to have this out.

*          *          *

I come to, and my head is just _killing_.

And _fuck me_ that sonuvabitch actually tied me to a goddamn chair.

I’m gonna kill him.

I shake the cobwebs out of my brain, but _that’s_ a fucking mistake because it just makes the room sort of blur a few degrees. And then the door opens and Sam walks in, all business like, with a bottle of Jack and two shot glasses.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I say.

“No,” he says, flipping that fuckin hair out of his eyes with that snotty little movement he does when he’s annoyed and feeling fan-fucking justified. He pulls up the other chair right in front of me and sets the little plastic trash bucket upside down between us, plunks the booze and glasses down like he’s the motel room bartender. He pushes his hair back again, his jaw stubborn as hell, so stubborn I just wanna grab it and break it or kiss it or _something_. But _no_ damnit— _fuck,_ I’m shit at breaking old habits.

“You say something, you get a shot,” he says, like it’s the most logical goddamn proposition ever made. Like I’m not tied to a fucking chair.

“Fuck you.”

“That doesn’t count,” he says, raising his eyebrows.

“Eat me,” I growl.

“Maybe later,” he says, without a trace of smirk or smut, just all straight-faced like he’s Robocop or something, just waiting. “Fine,” he says finally, looking away and raising his eyebrows like _I’m_ a moron. “I’ll demonstrate.” He looks back to me, pinning me with his eyes. “It kills me that you dumped the amulet.”

I just stare at him for a minute, and he pours himself a shot and downs it, giving me this look like _see Dean, this is how you drink a shot. Do you think you can manage that, Dean?_

And now I really do wanna kill him.

‘Cause I still remember that panicked feeling I had just for a second, taking the necklace off that first time. Cass staring at me all Angel of the Lord intense and waiting for me to hand over his holy quest item. And my fingers didn’t wanna let go. Stupid thing had been around my neck for so long. Only came off when I goddamn died, for chrissakes, and I held it out for him and it just hit me like a ton of bricks—this thing was a part of me. Like the car. Like Sam. Those things were the constants in my sad, sorry life, and you better believe there’s not much that stays constant when you’re a hunter.

And even those things had been taken from me a few times.

Of course, I got them back. Because that’s what I do. Fixed the damn car. No amount of mangled that was too much for me to handle. Just metal and muscle. Get it done.

Got Sam back too. That was an even faster fix than the car. Just words and a kiss. The follow through was a bitch, but hey, don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time.

And crawling out of my grave, well, that shit hadn’t been really real until I put my hands on the things that meant something to me. Bobby. My car. But most of all, Sam. Sam had grabbed me, crushed me against him, his hair against my skin and his whole body shaking, and I gripped him tight and knew I was finally home.

And when he slipped that cord over his head, and I realized he’d kept that bit of me with him while I’d been gone—

That little bit of metal still warm from Sammy’s skin was like the last missing piece telling me I was _alive_. And it was like this thing between us really _meant_ something. This fucked up bond that I’ve long since stopped trying to analyze or justify. Fuck it. It’s there and I need it.

And after those piece of shit hunters snuffed Sam—shot my baby brother right in front of me—I didn’t even try to fight ‘em. I could have. I could have grabbed that barrel and made them eat it. But that was a job for later. Because right then Sammy was dead. And I’ve got no business being in a world that hasn’t got Sammy in it. So it was dead or bust. Get dead, get Sam, get it done.

And then I get up there and find him living out someone else’s Thanksgiving. Find out that his greatest hits are two of the worst moments of my life. And he’s gonna sit there right now, this sad poker face staring me down, and tell me that _he’s_ hurt _I_ threw the damn amulet away?

I smile.

He kind of shifts in his chair, like that wasn’t the reaction he was expecting.

“Well, Sammy,” I say, “I am _hurt_ that your heaven involved you getting as far away from me as possible.”

He does that quick huffing grimace that kind of flattens his lips out for a moment, and then he pours me a shot and brings it to my lips. For a moment I consider spitting it in his face, but I could really use a fucking drink right now. Next one. I’ll spit the next one.

It burns going down, and _yeah_ , that’s better.

“Dean, when I ran away, when I left for Stanford, that wasn’t me running from _you._ That was me running from _hunting_.”

“Same difference!”

“God!” He makes this motion like he doesn’t know what to do with his body for a moment, and then he grimaces and looks back to me, his eyes narrowed. “That’s my _point_ , Dean. You let hunting swallow you whole—let it take _everything_ from you. Dad signed you up for that army and you threw on the dog tags and said _yes, sir_.” He swigs another shot and stares me down again. “I didn’t want that. I couldn’t live that life.”

These ropes are really starting to piss me off now.

“And what was I supposed to do, Sam? Tell dad to go to hell? Run away and beg some kindly garage owner to make me his new apprentice?”

“I don’t know Dean, you do whatever it takes.”

“Drink!” I demand. He puts it to my lips and I swallow it down before I remember I was going to spit it all over his stupid face.

“Lots of kids choose careers their parents don’t approve of,” he says.

“Yeah, well not all of us got free rides to Ivy League land because we’re giant nerds!”

He laughs and raises a hand like I’ve said something just beyond the pale. “Dean, we’ve been living off our wits since before I can remember—I think you could have managed to swing a shitty part time job and take some automotive classes.”

“Oh yeah?” Oh, I’ve got him now. That smug bastard. “And where would you have been while all this was going down? Huh? Where would fourteen-year-old you have been, Sam!” His face changes, like he’s just taken a hard slap. Yeah, take that you selfish prick. “With dad,” I growl. “Alone. Left at some shit motel on your own, or—worse yet—dragged off on a hunt because dad needed help. Either way, you’d have had no one to watch your back. So yeah, I may have said _yes sir_ , but I sure as hell didn’t do it for dad. But that didn’t mean anything to you—” I shake my head. “You cut and run the _minute_ you had the chance.”

*          *          *

His words kick a hole in my chest, because he’s right. I never had the stomach for Dad’s crap the way he did, I didn’t know how to mold myself to it. I used Dean as a shield and then when I realized even _that_ wasn’t enough, I ran. I’ve never been as strong as him and it kills me.

I down another shot and it hardly burns at all now. The room is getting a little softer, and I pour Dean another too. I don’t give it to him right away, though, I just take in his stubborn face, hard and angry and _hurting_ , and I can hardly stand it.

He smiles bitter, “You know Sam, if I was wearing anyone’s fuckin dog tags it was yours, not dad’s.”

I shove the trashcan out of the way and get down on my knees in front of him, my hands on his thighs, the feel of him like gravity and all I can do is fall towards him. I reach up and cup his jaw, his stubble scrubbing my skin, making my heart lurch. I press the shot glass to his lips and he swallows, his eyes closed, his breath hitching underneath my fingers.

“You should have left too,” I say, my voice breaking. “We _both_ should have gotten out.”

He looks down at me. “I didn’t know how anymore. This is what I am, Sam.”

“I know Dean, why do you think I left?” His face shifts, like I’ve just stabbed him, and I realize how those words must have sounded. His face is already closing off to me, his eyes going dark, shutting me out. _“Dean, damnit!”_ I collide my lips with his, twisting my fingers around the back of his neck, and his whole body jolts, straining against the ropes. I pull back and he’s still with me, but I haven’t got him for long—I can tell. I’m losing this damn argument and I’m losing him. “ _I did that to you!_ You turned into a solider because of _me_. Lost your dreams because of _me._ Do you have any idea what that feels like? To be that much of a burden?”

His eyes go wide and he stares at me like he’s trying to tell if I’m lying.

“Is that all you think you were to me?” he says, furious now, his eyes burning with the drink and with so many years of anger I pull back from him, startled. “Couldn’t you feel it—how much you meant to me? I mean, sure, you were a pain in my ass some days, but that’s not the point. You’re my _brother_ , _my family._ You made it all mean something. Doing this together, hunting together—it _means_ something to me.” He shakes his head, and gives me that smile he uses to say shit he thinks he’s accepted, his _I don’t like this, but this is just how it is_ smile. “And it just doesn’t mean the same to you. So this _thing_ between us? This freak show? It’s over. I’ll get my rocks off somewhere else.”

*          *          *

Sam sits back on his heels, and his eyes go dull. His hand reaches up to his face like he’s not sure what he’s doing. He nods, and it’s like he’s really far away all of a sudden.

He pulls his knife out, his shoulders sagging, and cuts the ropes on my legs, then the one on my right wrist but not my left. He presses the knife into my hand and leans down, grabbing the bottle of Jack a little unsteadily. He wobbles off towards the bathroom while I cut the last rope, and I was _sure_ the first thing I was gonna do when I got free was beat the holy hell out of Sammy for having the nerve to tie me up like a trussed chicken, for thinking he could _force_ me into talking out our problems like some twisted hunter version of therapy.

But there’s something about the way he walks off towards the bathroom, the slump of his shoulders, the way he knocks into the doorframe and slides down till he’s slouched on the tile—it just takes all the fight right out of me.

He takes a long draw off the bottle, and then he’s fumbling in his pocket for something, and I see him pull it out and realize what’s in his hand.

Something cracks in my chest and my vision goes a little blurry.

“Did you ever think that maybe it was a lie, Dean?” His voice is really quiet, and it’s got this hollow, dead sound to it that cuts me to the bone.

He takes another really long pull off the bottle and looks off into space. “Did you ever think that maybe those self-righteous angel dicks showed you _just_ what they wanted you to see—showed you the thing they knew would break you, get you thinking, _hey there’s nothing here for me, might as well say yes to Michael!_ ”

His voice is getting louder, his fingers gripping tight around the thing in his hand. “No one asked me if those were the things _I_ wanted to see in heaven. And you know, those memories might mean different things to me than they do to you, they might be moments that meant I was making choices for myself like a whole person, like a normal stupid kid that wants to rebel or have something to himself _for once_ , try something on his own, fuck it up, but at least _try._ So if you want to kick the shit out of me because those are good memories for me, _fine_. So be it. But that is _not_ my heaven.”

I crouch down next to him, and there’s nothing for it but to just ask. “Sammy, then what is?”

“I don’t get heaven!” he yells, pitching the bottle across the room. It shatters against the shower wall, glass shards on tile, and my heart jumps at the desperation on his face. “You think something like me, something with _demon blood_ in his veins gets heaven? You think someone with that much darkness gets _anything_ like that?”

“Sammy…”

He grabs me by the shoulder. “This, right here. This was the closest I’ll ever get to heaven. Fucking my big brother.” He lets go of me with this dark, bleak look on his face and sinks back against the wall. “And if that doesn’t tell you how far I am from heaven, I don’t know what will.”

I slide my hands up the line of his cheeks, and press my lips against his, just soft—really, really soft. Because I thought he’d broken me. But I had it so wrong.

“Sammy,” I murmur against his lips, “Sammy I love you.”

I let my hand fall down the line of his arm, my fingers tracing the path to his hand, and I feel his fingers curve open, slowly, at my touch. My fingers brush warm metal, a little strip of leather.

I take the necklace from his hand, and gently ease it back over my head, letting the cord slip down over my neck. The little bit of metal rests beside my heart, where it was always supposed to be. Where it always _will_ be.

I tip his face to look up at me and brush his lips with mine again. “You’re my heaven, Sammy.” He leans forward into me, one hand curving around my waist, the other sliding up to my shoulder. He presses his face into the crook of my neck and his breath is so warm, so soft.

“You’re mine,” he says.

And as I hold him, I realize that Cas had it right the first time. This little piece of metal did lead me to my god—just not the one I expected.

**Author's Note:**

> Come play with me on [Tumblr](http://weewinchesterbeastie.tumblr.com/)


End file.
